


Can't Be Blamed

by NovaStars42



Series: The Kids Aren't Alright [15]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Baking, F/M, First Kiss, First Love, GHB is not a good dad, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Humanstuck, Kurloz is a good brother, Rare Pairings, Sober Gamzee Makara, Stitches, Unexpected Kiss, boarderline child abuse, chocolate cake is the best therapy, does this count as a date?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaStars42/pseuds/NovaStars42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane unexpectedly ends up spending her afternoon with, of all people, Gamzee Makara.  </p><p>Takes place after "Miss Believer" but can be read alone (technically before the Fourth Of July event).<br/>Prompt was Unexpected Kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Be Blamed

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNb4FBawH_U
> 
> Say, Abby? Where have you been not updating your fanfictions?? Well, I’ll tell you. I spent three weeks getting ready for the county fair and then got stranded in Chicago. I’ve had a super busy month. I didn’t get anything spectacular at fair, no grand champions, but I had a lot of fun.
> 
> I’m going to start taking prompt requests for this story. No more pairings please, I have a ton that’s got requested, but if you have an idea you want me to write, run it by me.

I’d probably just left the worst party in the history of the universe.

I’d been invited by a mutual friend to a graduation party for a neighbor, Kurloz Makara. I’d been invited not by Kurloz himself, but by Callie, a friend of his younger brother. Callie’s brother had bailed on her, so she asked me to tag along.

Of course I’d said yes. Who could say no to Callie?

How I’d ended up driving my dad’s station wagon to the hospital though, that was another thing all its own.

One minute I was eating horrible potato salad at a festively decorated plastic table, and the next I was speeding down the highway.

In my passenger seat was Kurloz. In the backseat was Callie, trying her hardest to keep blood off of the upholstery. The source of the blood was none other than the younger Makara brother, Callie’s friend, Gamzee. Gamzee cradled his sliced open hand, it very clearly needed stitches.

I wasn’t even sure how I’d been the one to end up driving.

Kurloz’s car was boxed in, his father had run to the store to get ice, and well, I guess I’d had my car keys on me, hadn’t I?

Kurloz was pulling his health insurance card out of his wallet as I changed lanes, grumbling to himself. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

I hoped no cops saw me. Just thinking about getting stopped was giving me anxiety.

Thank gosh the hospital was only fifteen minutes away. I let Gamzee and Callie out at the door, and expected Kurloz to bail with them, but he just waved me on. I continued on to park, confused.

I ended up in the drab, grey parking ramp across the street. I bailed out as quickly as I could, but Kurloz was moving much, much slower. I couldn’t help but wonder what his deal was. His brother was practically bleeding out, and slugs were passing this guy by!

I stood near the end of my car, looking back at him. He had the passenger door open, his black vans on the ground, but he was still sitting in the seat.

“Jane, right?” He asked, turning to me.

That was my name, yes. “Yeah.”

“I need you to call my dad,” he spoke, and I almost couldn’t understand him. He pulled out his cell phone, unlocked it, and messed around on it for just a moment. Er, okay? Why me? When he handed it to me, it was ringing.

“Kurloz, where the fuck are you?” His father’s voice barked, “where the fuck is your brother?”

“Uh, hi, uh, Mr. Makara,” I stammered, “this is Jane Crocker, your neighbor? I drove Kurloz and Gamzee to the emergency room at Mercy. I hope that’s alright?”

“I’ll be right there!” He growled, and then the phone clicked. He’d hung up without any warning. Rude.

“Here,” I smiled awkwardly, handing him back his phone.

“Thanks. He can’t understand me over the phone,” Kurloz replied. “Meulin isn’t too good with phones either.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I assured, trying to move him along. I supposed that made sense.

He was following me, but slowly. I thought with those long legs of his I’d be struggling to keep up. Kurloz had to be like six foot, maybe taller. I felt like a pixie, at only five two, dancing around a giant.

We crossed the road and entered the emergency room just in time to join Gamzee and Callie as a nurse ushered them into a room. Callie handed Kurloz a clipboard, probably asking for insurance and medical history. Kurloz groaned.

“I’ll hang back,” he huffed. I, again, almost couldn’t understand him.

I felt really awkward, and unsure what I should be doing. I didn’t really know Kurloz enough to stay with him, and I wasn’t sure if following Gamzee back to get stitches was a wise choice. Callie was going though, and I knew her pretty well. I supposed I should just do what she was doing.

The nurse instructed Callie and I to drag two chairs into the room while she looked Gamzee over. When we returned, she was asking him the dreaded “how did this happen?”

“Well uh,” Gamzee muttered, “I was trying to cut an apple in half.”

“With a knife?” The nurse questioned.

“A spoon,” he replied, looking sheepish.

The nurse looked skeptical. “I’ll be back to give you some local, and then a doctor will fix up your palm. Keep pressure on it.”

And then she was gone, whisking out of the room.

I shifted uncomfortably in the silence that fallowed.

“I think I’ll have to excuse myself,” Callie spoke, thankfully. “I can’t stand needles.”

Callie was very obviously not from around here. Her cloths were a bit different, and English was clearly not her first language. She spoke with an accident, but she was touchy about where it came from. Eastern Europe best I could peg.

“Don’t sweat it,” a Gamzee passed her off with a lopsided grin. With his blessing she excused herself from the room.

All of a sudden I was alone with somebody I barely knew, in a hospital. I always thought medical emergencies like this were only for people extremely close to you.

“I hope uh, it doesn’t hurt too bad?” I inquired, trying a little too hard not to make things awkward. Everything with the Makara’s was always awkward. It was a curse.

“Shit sister, I’m higher than a mother fuckin kite, don’t worry,” Gamzee chuckled, glancing blankly down at his hand.

Well, at least he was being honest.

Just as long as they didn’t drug test him.

The nurse returned with the local anesthetic a few minutes later. Gamzee’s hand was still leaking like a faucet. I had to look away from the whole thing. My shoes were so much more interesting than a woman sticking a needle in a pile of flesh that looked like a ripped cake box.

The doctor saw him next, and with him he brought a bottle of glue. Instead of using staples or that medical thread stuff, he just glued Gamzee’s hand back together. No fuss.

We, er, maybe just Gamzee, was waiting on discharge papers when his father arrived. Highblood Makara was a big man, with big shoulders and thick arms. He had the same wild hair as his sons, but his jaw structure was entirely different. He looked ragged, hard and unapproachable with his outraged glare. The thick, choking scent of cigarettes followed him in.

“Gamzee, god damn it!” The mountain of a man roared. Gamzee visibly tensed. He earned some distrusting looks from the nurse.

“I swear to the Messiah, kid, you're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days!” His father practically shouted.

Gamzee didn’t give any indication of being afraid, but he was certainly braced to get screamed at. “Sorry pops.”

“Your ass can be sorry at home. Let’s go, your brother took care of the paperwork,” Mr. Makara commanded. “Trying to host a goddamn party for your irresponsible ass brother and then you all up and get hurt.”

“Hold on just a minute!” The nurse called, still seated at her desk, “he can’t leave yet! He needs a tetanus shot.”

“Horse shit,” Mr. Makara spat, “I’m his dad. You can’t bar me from him.”

“His brother checked him in,” she said very matter of factly, standing up to face him, “he has to wait until discharge or his brother has to check him out.”

“I’m his mother fucking legal guardian! I have shit to do!” Mr. Makara countered, loudly.

“I’m required by law to see that all minors get the care they need! Now sit down, sir, or I’ll be forced to call security!”

“Mr. Makara,” I tried hesitantly. I wanted to try to defuse the situation best I could.

When he looked down at me, I could tell Mr. Makara hadn’t even known I was there. “What?”

“If you like, um, if you need to leave, I could bring Gamzee home,” I offered.

“You drive?” He asked redundantly. I nodded.

“Yeah sure,” he agreed, begrudgingly. “I gotta get Kurloz back, and Callie’s mom's been assing me to get her home.”

He just sort of stood there, until I affirmed with a short “okay” that this plan was, in fact, a good one. Mr. Makara seemed sort of placid after that. It was actually kind of sad. He left, muttering profanities to himself on his way back to collect Callie and Kurloz from the waiting room in emergency.

The nurse was still looking at us, her head supported on one hand. Her scrubs were an eye catching combination of blue green and yellow, stacked on top of each other in broad bands. She wore a hijab, a bright, contrasting pink. She got up, a paper in one hand and joined us once more in the room.

“Listen,” she began, gently, “I’m supposed to report any sign of child abuse I see to the authorities. Be straight with me here, did you really do that with a spoon?”

Gamzee didn’t crack a smile or laugh, he just sort of sat, letting her words smack him in the face. I’d watched him cut himself, so I knew the truth, but this wasn’t my conversation to finish.

“Yeah I did it myself,” a Gamzee agreed, finally.

The nurse, her name tag read Ms. Paint, gave him a hard, untrusting look. She held it for a few moments before sighing, exasperated. She held the paper out to him.

“If you need something, you call me. Alright?”

Gamzee took it, but he didn’t reply.

Ms. Paint left immediately after that, and returned with the aforementioned tetanus shot. She administered it and stated she was going to process Gamzee’s paperwork next. When she returned a half an hour later, she told us we were free to go.

I kept a close eye on Gamzee as we walked back to the car.

This Gamzee was so different from the one I’d meet at the party. He’d been so happy, and he smiled a lot. He had this sort of off brand humor, a lazy way about him that was always accompanied by a lopsided grin. I watched him climb stairs in the parking garage now. His shoulders were squared and his eyes were focused. He didn’t speak and he held a very serious expression on his face.

“Are you alright? Does your hand hurt?” I inquired, sliding into the station wagon’s driver's seat as he climbed in on the passenger side.

“No, it don’t hurt none. I guess I just kinda sobered up,” he mumbled.

“Oh,” I replied. I wasn’t sure what else to say exactly.

“I’m just so,” he paused, mid sentence, and when he continued, he’d cranked the volume until he was shouting. “What the mother fuck does that mother fucker think this is? The mother fucking Mirthful Messiahs be damned, I’m hurt, and all that shitbag can say is he’s ‘got shit to do?’ What the fuck?”

I stuck a finger in my ear, trying to chase away the ringing he’d just caused. Gamzee put his head in his hands. I supposed I understood now why he got high all the time.

“I know it probably won’t make it any better, but what do you say we go to my house and I’ll make us a cake?” I offered. “It’ll get your mind off of it.”

“You like to bake?” He asked, looking up at me and brushing his hair out of his face.

I nodded. “Sure as sugar!”

He cracked this strange half smile, showing too much teeth and too much malice. “So do I.”

He was a bit unnerving, but I guessed if he wasn’t screaming that was a good sign.

I started the car and backed out, carefully navigating the cramped parking ramp to the street. From there I traveled back to the highway and rode us home. My driveway had never looked so welcoming.

My front door was unlocked seeing as my dad was home. It was hot this afternoon in mid-July. We dashed from the air conditioned car to my air conditioned house in record time.

“Hi dad!” I greeted right away, before I’d even shut the front door. Dad was always home all day on Saturday. He did housework in the morning, but by noon he was sitting in his chair in our living room, reading the paper or clipping coupons.

“Hello Jane,” he greeted, welcoming and warm. His gaze shifted to Gamzee, and he almost did a double take.

“Gamzee, isn’t it?” He asked, clearing his throat before speaking.

I thought maybe the look on his face was malcontent, but then I realized it was surprise.

“That’s me,” Gamzee agreed.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. We live in the same neighborhood, but I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken,” my father chatted.

“We’re gonna bust out the Crocker family cookbook and make a cake, is that alright with you dad?” I interjected, cutting the casual conversation short. By now I was raring to go and almost pushing Gamzee into the kitchen.

“I suppose, yes, but-”

“Thanks dad, see you!” I said in a hurry, and I shut the kitchen door behind us.

The Crocker family cook book originated as a spiral bound notebook, bought for a penny in the thirties. It’s been rebound, laminated, taped, glued and added to so many times it was impossible to know where the original stopped and the add ins started. I pulled it out of its hiding place in our kitchen drawer and slapped it on to the table, faded cover and all.

“Go ahead and pick!” I urged, pushing it in his direction.

Gamzee pulled it in front of him, careful of the ancient pages and began leafing through it.

“My great grandma Betty started this cookbook when she was in her twenties, and it’s traveled through the whole family until it got to my dad,” I explained, beaming with pride over the family heirloom. “He’s gonna leave it to me, so I can pass it to my kids.”

He nodded, looking thoughtfully at the cook book before he paused, and turned it my way. “This one good with you?”

“Golly gosh yes!” I exclaimed, “German chocolate is my favorite!!”

The smudged ink had specific instructions and measurements on how to make Great Grandma Betty’s cake. I fished a mixing bowl out of the cupboard and set to work. As I grabbed the ingredients, Gamzee measured them out.

The recipe was a laundry list. It needed salt, butter, brown sugar, white sugar, a cup of buttermilk, four separated eggs, five egg yolks, two and a half cups of flaked coconut, and almost two hours to make.

When we were done though, and the cake was frosted and decorated, it was all worth it.

We cut the cake and dished ourselves out two huge slices, ready to taste our hard work.

Gamzee was back to himself. He grinned as he popped another bite into his mouth. His posture was relaxed once again. I noticed his eyelids still drooped despite his drugs having worn off long ago.

“You know how to make a mean cake, sister,” my newfound friend complimented.

“Oh shucks, you were the one putting it all together,” I giggled.

He chuckled, deep and rumbly in his throat. I watched as his eye caught something.

“Hold still,” he muttered, “you got something right,” he paused to lick his thumb, and then used it to scrub a little spot of something, probably frosting, off my cheek.

“Got it,” he grinned.

I flushed, and I’m sure I went all doe eyed. Heat crept up my cheeks and on to the tips of my ears, my skin reddening. My heart sped up.

I watched him have a similar reaction. His eyebrows raised and his shoulders squared, drawing back with a blush dusting across his features.

Oh shit, I realized, he’s hot.

“Thank you,” I managed.

“Noproblem,” he replied, his words running together.

I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He leaned closer to me, I leaned closer to him.

He was going to kiss me, wasn’t he? No. He couldn’t. Impossible. My mind was running away with me. We were only a few inches apart and I still couldn’t figure out what he was up to. Was this some strange joke? I could think of so many pranks to pull on him, I-

His lips brushed mine gently. He pulled away, almost chickening out. He forced himself back though, to kiss me again, smashing us together with a little more strength than needed. It still felt like I was coming up roses.

I was light headed. His lips were wet. I could taste chocolate.

I realized as he pulled away that I’d forgotten to close my eyes. We were both panting from the sheer excitement of it all.

“Shit, sister,” he muttered, “ _Jane._ I’m so sorry.”

“That was my first kiss,” I babbled.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask ya for it. I hope I didn’t disappoint. Fuck,” he swore, his breath ghosting warm over my skin.

“Oh, oh my god no, you couldn’t have, er, you didn’t uh,” I stammered. “I wouldn't mind if you were my second kiss.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth. Gosh darn it!!

He chuckled, deep and throaty, in a way that made me weak in the knees.

“Jane!” My father’s voice cut the air like a bullhorn, effectively ripping us apart to sit ridged on our chairs. We probably looked like a couple of red handed crooks.

My dad barged in the room without even pausing to look us over.

“Cake looks good,” he commended, grabbing a slice for himself. “Your brother will be home soon, I’m sure he’ll want some. Are you two alright?”

“Fine!” I spit out in a hurry.

“She was just about to walk me home,” Gamzee added, skidding out of his chair. He didn’t push it in like I did when I rose.

We didn’t say much of a goodbye to my dad, we mostly just rushed out the door. I’d probably be interrogated about it later, but right now I didn’t care.

Right now, I was running across the blacktop, across the street with a guy I maybe sorta liked as more than a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> -incoherent screaming- crack ship, crack ship, crack ship! I got so excited when I decided to write this so fucking e x c I t e d. Gamzee is a horrible piece of shit in canon but this is my au so I can throw canon to the wind! Jane is underrated. I’m not even guilty about this ship, not even. It’s good in all The Bad Ways™.  
> So it was hard to write sober!Gamzee because I couldn’t really do that in a way that was believable and wouldnt center the plot about this single manic outburst that would probably scare Jane off. She’s skeptical about everything, she doesn’t need a reason to dislike Gamzee.  
> Instead I changed sober!Gamzee from an explosive murderous maniac to a kid who, when the drugs wear off, starts feeling more than one emotion.  
> I didn’t do Jane well justice here. I traded her feeling for plot development, and I’m sort of angry I did that. I think it would have framed her character a lot better.  
> So ages ended up pretty jumbled in this fic since their birthdays do not correspond with their star signs. The beta kids and the beta trolls are around 14/15, Gamzee (flunked a grade) and the alpha kids are 15/16, and the alpha trolls are all turning 18.


End file.
